


Affair on the High Seas

by wombuttress



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Action & Romance, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-23
Updated: 2017-03-23
Packaged: 2018-10-09 14:53:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10414674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wombuttress/pseuds/wombuttress
Summary: When Josephine is kidnapped by the Pirate Queen of the Waking Sea, she has no choice but to engage in a battle of razor wit with the vessel's captain - one that soon turns deadly. But all is not so simple as she begins to know more and more about the enigmatic, alluring woman whose behavior she cannot quite predict.Deception, disguise, and kidnap - a colorful array of dramatis personae - drama and passion upon the waves - an ironic reversal - a group of rude and unexpected guests - a moment most tender - a tale of passion for the ages! A novel by Varric Tethras.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [inquisitor_tohru](https://archiveofourown.org/users/inquisitor_tohru/gifts).



> was hoping this thing wouldnt turn into a whole long cheesy romance novelette, but alas

It was good to be home, of course.

After so many years of being married to the Inquisition and practically chained to her desk, Josephine was glad to be home. Here, she could walk across the broad boulevards of Antiva City, smell the salt air as her blessedly loose hair flowed in the sea breeze, purchase herself a box of her favorite pastries and eat them sitting with her bare feet hanging off the pier.

Or, well, it was good to do that for approximately one afternoon. Then it was back to work.

She’d spent a full fortnight unpacking and greeting relatives and delivering gifts and rearranging her old room and completing task after task, and all this she had done with her usual efficiency, tact and grace. And it was then that Josephine found the time to wander down to the docks and have an afternoon to herself.

And it was lovely, of course, perfectly fine (if a bit—well, she was simply unused to having time to herself), but now it was time to go back to work.

She had her family’s affairs to put in order. Now that the trading ban was lifted, there was much to do, much to arrange.

Josephine resumed her position at a desk. Although, her new one wasn’t quite as nice, and her chair wasn’t quite as big.

But she could live with that.

 

-

 

It was much easier to put the trading affairs of House Montilyet in order than it was to arrange nations and kings. It was blessedly simple, financing a fleet, striking the most fortuitous agreements. It was practically child’s play.

It was…boring.

Josephine frowned at her new desk, which was completely clear of paperwork of any kind. She had already completed it all. There was simply nothing else that needed doing that day, or, in fact, for the rest of the week.

She tapped her foot, uncomfortable.

That couldn’t be right.

There was _always_ something to be done, always another candle to be burned, another night to while away. Surely there was _something._

Josephine wandered uncertainly out of her office and made a circuit around the manor. She peeked in on Yvette, who was…actually painting? Josephine blinked in shock, hovering at the door. Well, best not disturb her, Josephine supposed, trying not to feel disappointed at the half-hour’s distraction that badgering her sister would have provided.

The other members of her family proved equally useless, leaving Josephine to wander dazedly back to her office, before suddenly remembering that she had a bedroom and wandering over there instead. She sat on the bed, trying to think of what she would do with herself for the rest of the day.

She had hobbies, didn’t she? She liked things. Dolls. Chocolates. Carastian candles. Dancing. But upon consideration of any of those things, Josephine was suddenly gripped with the conviction that no, there was something she surely needed to be doing.

But quite plainly there was not.

She ended up falling asleep early, disturbed and unnerved.

 

\--

 

And then, of course, there were the pirates.

 

 

\--

 

Josephine wondered just what kind of spirit of Irony inflicted this on her, standing on the docks as she negotiated the return of her sister from the pirate vessel.

This was _not_ the sort of excitement she had wanted.

She had to admit—although never out loud—that at least the revival of an ancient blood feud with a fleet of Rivaini pirates and the ensuing naval war had been….invigorating. But not at the cost of her sister!

Things had gone well enough, she thought. The pirates were willing to return her sister unharmed, for a ransom, as long as Josephine herself met with the vessel’s captain. It was an obvious trap, but as far as she knew, this particular ship was not of any of the feuding bloodlines. And for the life of her sister, she could not possibly say no.

Josephine nearly collapsed with relief when she saw Yvette emerge from belowdeck.

“Yvette!” she sighed, wrapping her in a tight hug. “Thank goodness you are safe. I can’t believe it…kidnapping a member of my own family…”

“Kidnapping?” Yvette drew back, raising a quizzical eyebrow. “I wasn’t kidnapped at all!”

Josephine froze, and then, slowly pulled away. She held her sister at arm’s length and looked her in the eyes.

“What?” she said.

“I fell in love,” Yvette sighed. “Or, I _was_ in love—what a fickle creature it is, love! But Josie, that captain, he’s a pirate prince, and just so dashing! When he offered to take me away, how could I say no?”

Josephine considered being angry, and was really truly furious for all of a few seconds before remembering that this was, after all, Yvette.

The important thing was that she was safe now, Josephine told herself, taking several deep breaths.

“We will talk about this,” she said tightly, “later.” Josephine could put a lot of ominousness into a single _later_. “For now, I must speak with the captain, as part of the conditions for your return. Hopefully I can make some good of this come yet. Our family retainers will escort you home.”

“But Josie—”

“Just get home, Yvette!”

Yvette, recognizing her sister’s Truly Serious Tone, did not argue further.

Josephine took a breath and arranged herself. “I will speak to the captain now,” she said to the pirates by the dock (who of course, should the authorities search their hold, be found completely legitimate, no piracy here, of course not), and walked up the gangplank onto the vessel known as the _Siren Song._

She was shown to the captain’s quarters, the door swinging closed behind her, leaving her along with the good captain. The captain was sitting in a high-back chair with the back to the door, with only a large and ostentatious hat peeking above it. Josephine cleared her throat politely.

Before she could open her mouth to make her pre-prepared opening remarks, the captain stood and turned.

The captain, it turned out, was not a dashing pirate prince. The captain was a woman, a woman of warm dark skin, a coif of untamed black hair, and what was surely several pounds of gold jewelry. She wore the third-most ostentatious hat Josephine had ever seen (an impressive feat, for one who had been educated in Val Royeux), and seemed only to be wearing any clothes at all for the express purpose of drawing attention to the parts where she was not wearing them.

(Maker, Josephine hadn’t even known they _got_ that large.)

“Captain,” Josephine said politely. “I am afraid I was not told your name.”

“It’s _Admiral,_ actually,” she said with a dagger grin, “Admiral Isabela. And you,” her voice dropped low, “are Lady Josephine Cherette Montilyet, the famed merchant princess who has been giving my fleet all this trouble.”

Josephine kept her face still. “I was lead to believe that this vessel was not involved in that dispute.”

Isabela clucked. “Why don’t you have a seat, and we can discuss some trade agreements?”

The door slammed shut behind her, and Josephine heard the key turn and the bar slam down over the door.

“A kidnapping, then?” Josephine said dryly. She distantly heard the raising of the gangplank and the order of the first mate, nearly losing her balance as the vessel jerked away from the dock.

“A kidnapping,” Isabela said cheerfully.

Josephine kept a stiff upper lip, and regarded this woman before her, all kohl-lined eyes and glittering gold and dangerous smirks.

Josephine sat down and smoothed out her petticoats neatly. “Well, we’ll see how well that works out for you.”

 

\--

 

For pirates, Admiral Isabela’s crew were all really quite pleasant.

After the initial meeting with the ‘Admiral’ (plainly ridiculous), Josephine was escorted to the brig. Or at least, Isabela called it the brig, dramatically, while pointing. It turned out to be a perfectly serviceable guest cabin.

The pirates who took her there were a huge scarred Vashoth woman and a whippet thin elf with a mane of curly hair and an even curlier mustache. The exchanged pleasantries about the weather and waved cheerfully as they locked her in the alleged brig.

They left her in the cabin, the door barred firmly behind her. Josephine tapped her fingers against her chin, thinking. Isabela would leave her in here for some time—at least long enough for fear, hunger and seasickness to render her weak and pliable, inclined to accept whatever terms Isabela laid out for her. Isabela, battle-hard and sea-rough as she was, would be imagining that Josephine was a soft, terrified noblewoman, that she had never known hardship or discomfort, that her primary concern would be securing her own safety as soon as possible.

Josephine supposed it would not be entirely unfair. She _was_ soft, soft and round and delicate-handed from a lifetime of waging war by paper and ink and gifts of chocolate bonbons rather than by blade and bow. And surely enough, Josephine had known little enough hardship—what was the flight from Haven, only a few days of cold and weariness, compared to a life of a sailor and a criminal? And it was not untrue that Josephine felt a perfectly reasonable amount of fear, being, as she was, kidnapped by a crew of bloodthirsty pirates.

But it would be wrong, dead wrong, to think that Josephine’s primary concern was her own safety and comfort. For from the very moment the pirates had challenged her trade ships, had threatened her family, had kidnapped her, Josephine had only one goal, which she was now single-mindedly devoted to:

To _win._

\--

 

“These are your terms?” Josephine said, her sharp eyes peeking over the scroll of parchment she held. It spilled to her feet and pooled on the floor, and was written with such an elaborate dramatic hand that Josephine’s reading speed was _almost_ affected.

“That’s right,” said Isabela. She stood and strolled across the captain’s cabin. Today she wore a red coat lined with garish gold, with enormous cuffed sleeves and flaring coattails. It was held closed only be her sword belt, and beneath it she wore nothing but a breezy white shift. “To summarize, though of course you can look over the document for as long as you like—”

“I have read it,” Josephine interrupted. “You want an official pardon. You want the ceding of half my escort war vessels to you. And you want a title from the crown of Antiva. Is that all?” she said dryly, “Or do you also require my hand in marriage?”

“I’m not really the marrying type.” Isabela’s eyes raked Josephine up and down. “Although, if you wanted to offer me something besides your _hand,_ perhaps I’ll be feeling a little bit more…negotiable.”

Only her years of bardic training prevented Josephine from visibly blushing. “I think,” she said, “not.”

Isabela shrugged expansively. “Ah, well, then may I clarify any of my terms for you?”

They were plainly ridiculous, meant to boggle Josephine into begging for a steep-but-achievable price. She was meant to sputter and object, to get angry. “No, no,” she said in a measured tone, “I think these are quite clear. I think I would like some time in my quarters, to consider. Thank you, _Admiral.”_

Isabela hesitated, squinting. Josephine took that moment to stand and give a little curtsey. If she attempted to leave by herself, she would be restrained, and dragged off ignominiously. Better avoid that. “May I please have an escort to my quarters?” she said sweetly. “I am so inexperienced with the ways of such grand vessels, and I am sure I would only get myself lost.”

She didn’t have to look round to see Isabela’s expression, but privately delighted in its imagined consternation.

 

\--

 

When the dwarf girl (Pel, sixteen years old, formerly of Orzammar, known to be a terror in battle wielding a frying pan) came to bring her water, Josephine made sure that she was sprawled across the narrow bed, the scroll of terms tossed with careful carelessness across the room. 

Josephine was _simply exhausted_ from all this being cooped up in her quarters, unable to relieve her _terrible_ seasickness by even gazing at the horizon. And oh, this sunless misery was sapping her concentration and her will. She simply could not think clearly enough to properly think over the contract. If she could only go out on the deck, perhaps she might be restored?

The girl hesitated, then disappeared, promising to let the captain know. Not much later she returned. “Captain says you can come out,” she said.

Josephine rose, steady on her heeled feet despite the rocking of the waves. “ _Do_ send her my deepest thanks.”

 

\--

 

One of the main benefits of being a prisoner at sea was that the sea itself was her warden. Rather than remaining chained in a dungeon, with her clothing all torn and her hair loose, with the rogueish captain paying daily visits to charm an acquiescence from her—which all would have been very terrible, very awful indeed—Josephine could move about the ship more or less freely. After all, it wasn’t as though she could have bested any of these hardened pirates in battle, not anymore, not after all this time. And even if she could, she could hardly have sailed the ship home all by herself. For as long as the _Siren Song_ remained at sea, Josephine was as well imprisoned as in any dungeon.

Out on the deck, it did not take Josephine long to learn about the rest of Isabela’s crew.

The quartermaster was an enterprising man from Nevarra, who had a limp and frequently broke out into limerick. The navigator was an elderly fellow who liked his wine, a former Chantry brother with red cheeks and a bald head. Zahria the Vashoth was the first mate. Pel was the cabin girl. The bos’n was a blond woman almost as large as Zahria, missing an eye, with thick corded arms and an even thicker accent.

(“She’s a literary genius in her native tongue,” the quartermaster confided. “You should hear her poems in her native Ander!” Josephine was fluent in Ander. She’d have to remember.)

The ship’s carpenter was a rather nervous young woman from Tevinter. The gunner was an elf with ashy skin and flyaway hair, who insistently yelled every word he spoke. The surgeon was an old human (or Josephine _thought_ she was human) woman with long white hair and a hunched back, who cackled regularly and at volume.

Josephine memorized all their names, them and the masters and their mates, and made polite conversation did one of the many things she did best—made conversation.

Sailing was, after all, quite boring, and the men and women of Isabela’s ship welcomed the friendly chat.

“Do tell me,” Josephine began several times, “what _are_ the conditions like aboard your good captain’s ship?”

 

\--

 

Josephine did not see Isabela again the rest of that day, and the following day. The ship tossed back and forth in the waves, rising and falling, the infinite horizon as flat and blue as always. Out on the sea, it was easy to imagine that it truly went on forever, blue and shining and golden where the sun touched it. 

The third night, as Josephine slept, she heard her door creak open. She was on her feet in an instant, barefoot and loose-haired.

“Ah, Captain,” she said courteously. “To what do I owe the pleasure?

In the gloom of the darkened cabin, Isabela was not smiling. “Don’t you toy with me,” she said, nearly snarling. She strode closer, the door swinging shut behind her. “You think I don’t know what you’re doing, with these little games?”

“I—”

“No, don’t talk,” Isabela interrupted. “Once you start talking, it’s all over. You can weasel your way through anything with your honeyed words, can’t you?”

Josephine took a sharp, undetectable breath, and said nothing. Isabela was very close to her now, nearly chest to chest. The captain was taller than her, though not by as much as it had initially appeared with her absurd hat, which she was missing now.

“You nobles and your words,” Isabela muttered. “Knew someone like you once before, with clever words like that. Talked their way out of everything, they did.”

She huffed, eyes lost in the past for a heartbeat. Then they were present and glittering once more.

“Now I didn’t go to the trouble of kidnapping you just to get all this, this—weaseling. Don’t think I don’t respect it—but I’ve had enough. So why don’t we settle this directly, woman to woman?”

“And what do you mean by that?” Josephine said, unthinkingly matching Isabela’s low tone, her breath mingling with the pirate’s.

“Don’t think I haven’t noticed the way you look at me, sweet thing,” the pirate said. “How long has it been since you’ve gotten your feathers properly ruffled _,_ you pretty golden bird?”

Josephine lifted her chin and arched an eyebrow. “I…I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

Of course, Josephine knew _exactly_ what Isabela meant. This was an intimidation tactic. Isabela was an emotionally intelligent woman quite capable of reading people. She had noticed Josephine’s attraction, and was attempting to use it to gain leverage.

“Come now, sweet thing, don’t you think we can become a bit friendlier, and strike an agreement as only good friends can?”

“Perhaps,” Josephine said, “it is that we can…as soon as you return me to shore, where we can talk more civilly, no?”

Of course, it was only an intimidation tactic. It didn’t mean there was any actual interest involved. Josephine would not be fooled.

Isabela drew back, and grinned. “I should dearly like to know what it takes to ruffle _your_ feathers, my Lady Josephine. Well, no matter. We have supplies enough to not make port for months yet. And delicate negotiations like these take time, don’t they?”

This was, of course, the lynchpin. Josephine was still a prisoner, completely at Isabela’s mercy. A captain’s ship was like their nation, where the captain’s will was absolute.

Except, of course, pirate ships—notoriously democratic institutions, pirate ships.

“Why yes, my captain,” said Josephine. “That they do.”

 

\--

 

The weeks aboard Isabela’s ship went by. 

It was, like most long sea journeys, fairly uneventful.

Josephine found herself almost disappointed. She’d been hoping that after a month at sea, she would have at least witnessed a pitched sea battle.

Not that, of course, she had any interest in that sort of thing. She was happy as a pacifist. Experience had taught her the true cost of a life of excitement. It was not a price Josephine was willing to pay, not when there were other ways.

But there were times, when the candle stubs burned low and the moon hung heavy in the sky, that Josephine remember her days as a bard, the heady smell of vanilla and cardamom in smoky velvet rooms, the whispers, the intrigues, the sudden bursts of excitement and throat-filling terror. The feeling of life in her veins, the sensation of being right on the edge without plummeting from it, the free-wheeling wildness of it all. It was all so…

…terrible, of course. It was a good thing it was behind her.

She mostly spent the time chatting with the crew.

(“Do tell me,” said Josephine, “How much does she pay you? I’m certain you get an equal share of the booty, no?”)

The bosun’s poetry really was delightful. Josephine had no trouble whatsoever giving the woman a glowing literary critique of form and function, all in her native Ander. She absolutely beamed to hear it.

(“And, I suppose, the captain will provide for you, should anything happen? I understand it is common to lose hands, or eyes.”)

After a few days, Josephine coaxed the story of the cabin girl’s flight from Orzammar out of her. It had taken nearly an hour to tell even a short version of it, and involved a frying pan, a horde of trained nugs, a cross-dressing lyrium smuggler, and an amount of gold that lead even Josephine’s jaw to lightly drop. She made a note to herself to offer the girl a job, should she ever grow weary of the pirate’s life.

(“And just how long _has_ it been since you have seen your dear mother?”)

The quartermaster even indulged her in a brief fencing lesson on the main deck.

(“It’s been quite a while since there’s been any piracy, hasn’t there? All on account of me, you say? Oh, but aren’t you _bored_?)

It was quite pleasant, overall, if somewhat tedious. Josephine came to know quite a lot about the business of running a ship, of rigging and hoisting sails, of gunmanship and swordplay. She found she had quite a lot to talk about with the navigator. Her skin grew darker and deeper day by day, her hair growing course and rough with salt.

(The crew, she noted, grew more and more disgruntled by the day.)

Throughout this time, she hardly saw the captain at all.

The first mate handled most of the day-to-day business of running the ship. The captain, Josephine knew, only held absolute authority in battle. Isabela would appear on occasion, to speak with the mate, the navigator, the helmsman, and then once again be out of sight.

(Good, that was good. An absent, unengaged leader was an easily deposed leader.)

Josephine tried not to be too disappointed.

After all, what had she been expecting? To be locked in the little room and made to wear a revealing gown, like one of the heroines in Cassandra’s absurd novels? To have the dashing captain visit her night after night to demand whether today she had finally changed her mind? Had she imagined charming the blackhearted rogue with her innocent ways, softened her heart and opened her mind with her sweet words?

Of course she hadn’t. This was _not_ one of Cassandra’s novels, of which, Josephine was realizing, she had read entirely too many of.

Isabela hardly even looked in her captive’s direction. She didn’t seem be concerned with her kidnapped noblewoman at all. And that was good, wasn’t it? This way, she would have no idea of Josephine’s plans. Or instead, was she perfectly aware of them? Without physical proximity, it was impossible to tell.

It began to gnaw at her. And she hated it. No other person, no other woman, had ever raised her passions like this. She was intoxicating, infuriating.

And it made no sense.

She was only a pirate. Another opponent.

What could be the purpose of it? The only explanation Josephine could devise was that Isabela had realized she would not break Josephine with intimidation, and had decided instead to charm her—not through herself, but through her crew of lovable misfits. Had Isabela banked on Josephine growing to sympathize with the pirates, to come to take their side? To join them? To grant Isabela’s demands by dint of expecting to benefit them herself?

It seemed less and less ridiculous the more she thought about it. If it was madness, it was not a madness Josephine would put beyond the pirate captain.

But just as Josephine was beginning to rattle at the thought of Isabela’s aversion, she received a formal invitation to dinner in the captain’s cabin.

It even came with a dress—a red one, with dropped shoulders, that showed entirely too much cleavage, even by Antivan standards.

Typical.

 

\--

 

Josephine arrived to dinner in the captain cabin punctually, dressed as she had been directed to, with her hair done as neatly as she could manage.

Isabela was clearly already halfway drunk, but she wore an excessive amount of antiquated formalwear, a hodgepodge of Antivan and Rivaini and Nevarran pieces. Paired with her untamed snarls of hair and quantity of golden jewelry she looked…absurd, and yet, managed an allure and magnanimity that Josephine was sure she did not herself possess.

Infuriating. As usual, with this woman.

“You know,” said Josephine, “my understanding of this situation, as it usually plays out—now, correct me if I am wrong—”

“I surely will,” Isabela said.

“Now usually,” said Josephine, “when the devious pirate captain invites the helpless captive to dinner, it will be following recent plunder.”

“Oh? Is that so?”

“Yes, so that the pirates, being wretched fiends as they are, plunder a sumptuous feast from the wealthy landed nobles, which may then be superciliously served to the helpless captive in a power play. But, of course, this would be impossible to do after more than a few days at sea, owing to the difficulty of preserving food on long sea voyages.”

“That’s right,” said Isabela.

“And given that we have been at sea for many weeks now…”

“Yes?”

“It just strikes me as odd that you would choose _now_ to hold this event.”

“Just what are you implying?” Isabela gasped. “You dare cast aspersions on my piratical feast-plundering abilities?”

“Of course not,” Josephine said smoothly, surveying the feast-table, covered in cured meats and hardtack as it was. “Not at all.”

She took a polite sip of water, leaving the cup of rum untouched.

“If you wish to know whether I have yet come to a decision regarding your demands,” said Josephine, “I am afraid the answer is no.”

“ _Must_ we talk of business?” Isabela complained. “I only wanted to get to know you.”

Josephine did not blink as she considered this. An interesting play.

“Very well,” said Josephine. “Then, let us talk.”

The silence and the length of the table stretched out before them. Isabela swished rum around in the bottle and took a swig.

“You’re very hard to read,” she said eventually.

“Thank you. It is a skill I have developed.”

“Don’t you ever get tired of that?” the pirate said, with a sudden earnestness that came dangerously close to catching Josephine off-guard. “All the pretending and all the rules. All this…playing the game. I’d be exhausted.”

That twinged an irritable nerve. “If I am exhausted, quite plainly it is not for those reasons. Captivity does tend to wear on one, no?”

“Well, true.” Isabela shrugged expansively, as though to say that it certainly wasn’t _her_ fault that Josephine just happened to be a captive. “But I suppose I get the feeling you’re always like this. Weren’t you the Inquisition’s diplomat? Friend of mine wrote me about you. _Ruffles.”_ Isabela grinned at the nickname, and Josephine silently cursed Varric to the endless depths of the Void.

“How _is_ Varric?” she said sweetly instead, as though they were merely discussing a mutual friend at a casual dinner meeting. “I understand the Viscount’s life does not agree with him.”

Isabela laughed. “Not at all! He hates it! He’s like me, you know. An absolute scoundrel. The lawful life of Kirkwall’s Viscount must be wearing on him. But he really loves that shithole, you know? Can’t imagine why. It needed a good blowing-up, in my opinion.”

It was strange, all of a sudden, to imagine Varric—dependable, friendly, shoulder-to-cry-on Varric—running with as many rogues as he surely must have. Josephine had supposed he’d left that life behind him, but as she herself had. But, if they were still in contact…

“D’you know, I knew the guy who did it? He was a real bore. Always carrying on about the rights of the oppressed, and whatnot.  He was no fun at all after he got himself possessed.  But oh boy, before that? Absolute riot of a guy! Why this one time, in a brothel in Ferelden—”

Isabela launched into a long story that was as raunchy as it was improbable. Josephine listened, watching the pirate’s face, and horrifically, found the corners of her lips quirking up, found herself chuckling, and not bothering to suppress it.

“…and that’s why you should never bait a giant squid,” Isabela concluded sagely. “It’s just not worth it!”

“Indeed,” Josephine agreed seriously. She glanced at the cup of rum by her plate and noted that it was nearly empty. Troublesome. Whoever they had plundered the rum from had had good taste.

“I’ve got quite a lot of stories like that,” Isabela boasted. “A life of adventure and dalliance, of callous, wanton hedonism! All for killing the bastard husband my mother had sold me to. But you wouldn’t know anything about that, would you, sweet thing? You’ve been nothing but obedient your whole life, I suppose.”

Sold…bastard husband….the lurching of the ship suddenly made Josephine’s stomach turn, though she had experienced no sea sickness so far. She attributed it to the rum. “As a matter of fact,” she said, suddenly overcome with the desire to prove this pirate wrong, “You’re incorrect. I was a bard in Orlais for many years. The circles Leliana and I ran in were simply atrocious. Such stunts we pulled…”

“Leliana?” Isabela laughed. “Oh, but I have a wonderful story about _that_ pretty bird. She sang quite prettily, I recall. The Blight really does bring people together, doesn’t it?”

The way Isabela smirked, the implications that smirk carried…she meant to offend Josephine’s delicate sensibilities.

Well. If she thought that a former Orlesian bard’s sensibilities were that easily affronted…

“Oh, yes, I know all about that,” she said, fixing Isabela’s kohl-lined eyes with a heated stare over her cup. “She does sing rather nicely, doesn’t she?” She tilted back the rest of the rum in one swallow. “As I said, we pulled _such_ stunts together. We were…close.”

Isabela tapped her boot against the wood plank floor, a vanished grin slowly reappearing across her features. “Well, well,” she said. “Perhaps you’re more fun than I thought you’d be, after all.”

Josephine couldn’t help it. She was suddenly ten years in the past, a younger, wilder woman, her hair loose and her fingers twined with Leliana’s as they took on the whole wide world together. “This one time,” she said dreamily, “sneaking away from Lady Chantily’s dreadful party, we encountered a herd of druffalo…”

Isabela made the telling of it fun. She cackled, gasped and demanded details. She stomped her boots on the deck and slammed her fists on the table.

Isabela, Josephine observed, in a remote and distant sense entirely separate from the warmth and ruddy laughter of the captain’s cabin, had a way of making people feel wanted. That was her secret, she realized. She made people feel welcome, wanted, desired—and that drew them to her like moths to a flame. It was how she operated. It was how she maintained her captaincy.

As she thought this, the rest of Josephine concluded the wild and feckless tale of her youth. Isabela applauded.

“But all of that is behind you now,” Isabela sighed. “Now you merely run accounts and draft party invitations.”

“Sometimes, both at once,” Josephine said seriously. The pirate laughed, and Josephine felt troubled, for the warmth that throaty laugh inspired in her.

Perhaps it was the guilt.

“And do you never wonder, sweet thing, what it would be like to return to that life?” Isabela said. Josephine would have thought it another manipulation, but the look in the pirate’s eyes was a distant, melancholy one. “How do you just…do that? Settle down, forget everything that used to bring you joy and pleasure, leave it all behind? How do you _manage_ it?”

She really seemed to want to know.

Josephine’s life, the diplomat realized, with its comfort and ease and stability, with its regular dinnertimes and rooms full of family, was as alien to Isabela as Isabela’s life of swashbuckling were to Josephine.

Except, of course, they weren’t alien to her at all.

She had left them behind for a reason.

“You really never want to go back?”

The candles on the table had burned low. Above decks, all was quiet, with nothing but the creaking of the ship, the crashing of the waves, and Isabela’s steady breathing. Josephine regarded the other woman, with her rum-heavy eyes and rumpled clothing, with her dark skin (quite similar to her own) and dark hair (curlier, yes, but nearly the same shade), with her golden fingers (Josephine had always loved gold things) and flashing melancholy eyes.

“No,” she said. “Never.”

 

\--

 

The night was calm, the stars clear. The pirates had gathered on the stern around the rudder, discussing something. Josephine paused at the gunwhale to pick out a few of her favorite constellations. Bellitanus, the maiden. Tenebrium, the shadow. Peraquialus, the voyager, the topmost star in which would always point a sailor north. Looking upon the stars always filled Josephine with a certain vibrant excitement, the desire to discover, to see more, to see beyond, but right now her fingers only tapped impatiently on the wooden bannister as she considered the problem before her.

Josephine’s mind was still on Isabela.

She had wasted hours reexamining every moment of their dinner, analyzing it from every possible angle. Had she served light rations but heavy quantities of rum to lower Josephine’s defenses by inducing her to drink on an empty stomach? Or was it simply a fact of a sailor’s life? Had Isabela mentioned this wretched husband her mother had sold her to (her nose wrinkled at the very thought, recalling uncomfortably that her own mother had nearly done the same…but that _wasn’t_ the same, was it?) to gain her sympathies? Ordinarily, Josephine would have thought yes, but after that evening, she was no longer so sure. Isabela was no fool, but she was not precisely cunning. Her mind was not one that thought around corners. Her manipulations, now that Josephine thought of it, were simple, obvious, not intended to actually fool. Had the subtler machinations that Josephine perceived been merely her own fancy, then?

“Beautiful, aren’t they?”

Josephine didn’t jump, but only because of her years of training.

“My captain,” she said. “Fine night, isn’t it?”

“Sure is,” Isabela said, standing beside Josephine by the gunwhale. Her head tilted upward, her eyes full of stars.

Josephine stood there, arms crossed and chin lifted. But Isabela wasn’t looking at her. “You know constellations?” she asked eventually.

“Of course! All of them, and some individual stars not part of any constellation at all. I like those best. Means I can name them myself.”

“I can only imagine what sorts of names you give them,” Josephine said wryly.

The pirate grinned. “Want to hear some?”

“Perhaps...another time.”

They watched the stars in silence, reflected in the flat blackness of the nighttime sea.

“Do you ever,” Josephine began, hesitating, and then carried forward, knowing that now she had not even the excuse of rum, “Do you ever wonder, what’s beyond that horizon?”

Isabela’s starlit eyes danced with humor. “Only every day. I sit and I wonder and I finish my drink, and then I go abovedecks and order my crew to take me there.”

“But you don’t,” Josephine said. “You sail around the bay, seeking riches and amusements. With resources like yours, you could do so much more. You could explore beyond the Amaranthine Ocean. You could discover completely unknown lands, encounter completely unknown people.” She shook her head. “I suppose I just don’t understand, for all your talk of wildness and freedom. A whole world of ocean out there, and you’re still in this little sea. “

“I have fun in my little sea,” Isabela sniffed. She was quiet for a while. “Wonder what those other people call the stars, though.”

“Yes…” Josephine shivered in the cold air. “I wonder that as well.”

After that, Isabela didn’t stay long. She walked worldlessly away, boots creaking on the deck. A moment later, Josephine heard the captain’s cabin door click shut.

Not long after that, cabin girl Pel approached. Her frying pan was in hand. The other crewmates held their weapons, too. Several of them shifted uncomfortably, nervously glancing to the captain’s cabin door again and again.

“Miss,” said Pel, “You might want to get inside your room for this next bit. It likely won’t be pretty.”

Josephine smiled at her, and agreed wholeheartedly. She went without complaint to her cabin and settled in carefully to listen in on what was going to happen next.

 

\--

 

All in all, the mutiny was nearly over before it started.

Josephine remained in her cabin for what she deemed to be a safe amount of time before peeking out. They hadn’t locked her in. There were no sounds of battle or struggle, but she could distantly hear the argument playing out on the aft deck.

If she hoped to no longer be a captive in truth after these events played out, she would have to have a hand in what occurred next. She calmly made her way to where the pirates had gathered.

Isabela was stripped of her admiral’s hat, which now rested jauntily on the quartermaster’s head. They had tied her to the mizzenmast, and several of the mates held their cutlasses pointed at her.

“This is completely ridiculous,” she was saying.

“We have demands,” the quartermaster declared, “and they will not be ignored.”

“Oh, _demands,”_ she said scornfully. “Of course you have _demands.”_ She glared around at them. “Very well, you wretched sea-dogs. What demands are these?”

“We want equal sharing of the booty."

“We already _do_ that,” Isabela complained. “Ricardo, you great bloody fool, you’re the quartermaster. That’s what you’re in charge of!”

“And I want to go home to see my family!”

“You’re bloody pirates!” Isabela protested. “This is what you signed up for!"

“And we want insurance! You have any idea how many honest pirates lose hands and eyes and legs? We want assurances that we’ll be cared for and adequate prosthetics provided!”

“And more pirating. No more of this ransoming recalcitrant noblewomen. It’s _boring._ We want plundering!”

“Oh, is that so,” Isabela said crabbily. “Well, I recall you were all very happy about this course of action when Mellagra suggested it in the first place!”

Some of the pirates shifted and looked uncomfortably at one another. Josephine held her breath. But then the quartermaster pushed on, bolstering them.

“Nevertheless!” he declared, prompting a rousing chorus of agreement around them all. “So what have you to say?”

Isabela glared around at them. “This is complete poppycock,” she said, “and I’m not going to take the bait on this obvious bluff.”

The pirates drew back. Some looked guilty; some rather offended. “You think this is a bluff?” the first mate said.

“Obviously,” Isabela drawled. “I’m the best damn captain any of you scurvy water demons could ask for. I gave you a home and a family and you think you’re going to mutiny me? Oh, sure.” She rolled her eys. “I’m not fulfilling these ridiculous demands.”

The quartermaster met eyes with the first mate’s. They shrugged.

“Alright, then,” he said. “The plank it is."

“Yes!” crowed the pirates.

“Pff,” said Isabela.

“ _What?!”_ burst out Josephine. The plank? She hadn’t counted on that! Why hadn’t she counted on that?

“She’ll walk it at sunrise,” the quartermaster declared. “At swordpoint! And to the watery Void with her!”

“Hurrah!” called the pirates.

“Mhm,” intoned Isabela. 

“No!” cried Josephine.

At this second outburst the assembled crowd turned to her and burst forth with another hurrah. Several of them cuffed her affectionately on the shoulder and shook her hand. “And it’s thank to you, miss, that we had our eyes opened,” the head gunner said earnestly.

“Tomorrow, the plank,” the quartermaster—now captain, it could only be assumed, from his continued wearing of the captain’s hat—“And tonight, we feast and drink!”

“Hurrah!”

A delegation of pirates was sent to the hold to retrieve comestibles. Someone struck up a merry accordion tune. Merrymaking soon began wholesale.

They left Isabela tied to the mizzenmast, her numerous daggers and other sharp objects in a sizable pile well out of her reach. They paid Josephine no attention at all.

“I suppose you arranged this all,” Isabela called out to her. Josephine had expected scorn, rage, fury, but all she heard was a weary wry humor.

Josephine had actually imagined how this part would go. She would, in stately fashion, approach the pirate who had kidnapped her, who had thrown her family into crisis, who had attempted to extort and blackmail her, and she would coolly say, “That’s right.” She would fold her arms and cant her hips as she looked down at her opponent, and say, “Your fate is of your own making. You ought to have left me well enough alone, and you might have gone on pirating for a while until you were inevitably cut down. But now you have nothing, because you wanted everything.” She might have even considered giving her a dainty boop on the nose, and would have concluded with, “I shall see you ashore, _sweet thing.”_

But now, seeing gleaming, golden Isabela brought low like this, her beautiful hair all mussed, her eyes so tired, in a heap on the aft deck with her arms wrenched awkwardly behind her, brought her no satisfaction whatsoever.

Josephine reflected briefly on whether she regretted this. She musn’t, of course. If she wanted to free herself of her situation, removing Isabela from power was the best way to do so. She hadn’t expected her crew to actually kill her, but—there was still plenty of time to put a stop to that. And she would, of course, but Isabela was not her friend. Isabela was a murderer, a criminal, a pirate, and her captor, and this was not one of Cassandra’s novels. This was life and death, and Josephine never afforded herself the luxury of emotion when it came to life and death.

“I suppose I did,” she said eventually.

Isabela threw her head back, thunking it against the mast, and laughed and laughed until she was hoarse. “Of course you did,” she said. “Of course you did. Why, you’re nothing at all what I thought you were!”

 

\--

 

“I’m begging you,” said Josephine.

“I can’t imagine why, lady,” the new captain declared, brushing the dust of his new epaulets. “It was our dear former captain who landed you in this situation in the first place.”

“I realize as much,” Josephine said wearily. She had not slept a wink all night. “But this was not my intent.”

All through the night she had vainly attempted to reason with the mutineers. But they were no longer listening to her

“Oh, of course,” said Isabela. “She tries to manipulate a bunch of black-hearted rogues, and is surprised when they get a little murderous?

Isabela stood stripped of everything—her weapons, her coat, her boots, her jewelry, leaving only a flimsy white shift—on the wooden plank, luminous in the weak light of the morning. Isabela was no waif, but she looked distressingly vulnerable, stripped of everything as she was.

Josephine frowned. Well, no. She could not really say that Isabela looked anything like vulnerable. Even barefoot and wearing nothing but a loose white shirt, she was nothing less than a pillar of primeval strength, arms crossed under her breasts, rocking callously on the balls of her feet. Isabela, stripped of fripperies, was raw, essential.

It was different, she thought, from the kind of strength she knew, a strength made of layers of silk and jewelry, of clever words and careful symbols. This was the kind of strength Josephine was good at. Stripped of it, what would be left of her?

Then again, it was her clever words that had put Isabela on that plank, so perhaps she shouldn’t sell herself short.

“I’m serious,” Josephine said. “What is the possible benefit of murdering her? Tie her up, throw her in the brig. Maroon her on a deserted island. There’s no need for brutality.”

“And have her come back and seek revenge on every single one of us?” the bosun called in her thick accent. “Never!”

“Enough talk!” yelled the gunner. “Walk the plank!” The rest of the pirates shouted in agreement, waving their blades in their former captain’s direction, so that she was forced to take a step back.

“You’re all going to regret this,” she said. “I’ve got a demon-summoning blood mage friend and she’s going to resurrect me as a dreadful waterlogged revenant, and I’m going to eat all of your hearts.”

The pirates hesitated for a moment, evaluating the truth of this claim—a few blanched and dropped their blades—but eventually decided that if true, it would be a problem for the future.

“Walk! Walk! Walk!”

As Isabela rolled her eyes again and took another step towards the edge, there was a distant whistling sound, followed by an almighty crash as a cannonball made a gaping hole in the _Siren Song’s_ hull.

The crew fell silent, flabbergasted. Then the bosun lowered her spyglass and yelled, “Vashoth! Vashoth pirates!”

They looked to Isabela. She snorted. “Oh, sure, _now_ you want me back.”

Minutes later, they were being boarded.

 

\--

 

It turned out that Josephine didn’t like pitched sea battles much.

It wasn’t that she didn’t know how to fight. The muscle memory was still within her. If she had only had a blade—if she had not grown soft and heavy over the years of too much sitting at desks and consuming gifted bonbons, and happily ignoring the activities in the training yards outside her window—if her training had been in full-scale melee and not in stealth and subterfuge—

Well, the point being, none of those things were true. As such, when the Vashoth screamer came at her with a blade taller than she was, face painted red and terrible with vitaar, Josephine could only uselessly be knocked off her feet, followed by pathetically rolling out of the way of the second blow.

The Vashoth became engaged in a fight with the bosun, allowing Josephine to scramble away.

She’d never been in a battle before, she was realizing. Haven had been different. She’d kept out of the fighting there. This—the chaos was everyone, all around her.

Isabela had reassumed the captaincy immediately after the initial hit. She’d gotten a pair of boots and her hat back on in the amount of time it had taken for the boarding party to land, and had not ceased roaring orders the whole time. Now she was a whirling terror on the deck, burying one blade in the stomach of an adversary as her dagger tore open another’s throat.

Josephine crouched behind the main mast, realizing that she would be useless in this fight. She had had brief thoughts of snatching a fallen pirate’s weapon and joining the fray, lest she fall into even less savory hands, or be killed entirely—but the battle was stirring memories in her, visions of that young man in the tavern with his neck at that unnatural angle…

She couldn’t stay crouched here forever. She could have fled to the hold, but—if the crew of the _Siren Song_ lost this battle, surely she’d be killed too, or taken prisoner, this time with less recourse than ever. She couldn’t flee.

She spotted an unmanned cannon. A group of Kal Sharok dwarves had demonstrated such things to her before. She could do this.

She edged across the edges of the fray, hoping to remain unnoticed. Going unnoticed was something she _had_ been trained for. Finally, she reached the gun, its barrel cold against her hands. Cannonballs, cannonballs, she needed cannonballs…

She glanced wildly over her shoulder. She couldn’t tell who was winning. She spotted one large grey body on the deck, but who else? No, she couldn’t concern herself with that now.

The first shot from her canon nearly missed the other ship completely, barely skimming the foremast. She cursed colorfully and began the arduous task of reloading.

The second ball went straight through the hull. A direct hit, but not a particularly devastating one. A competent carpenter would fix that rather quickly, and the ship would sail with it. Now, if she could perhaps take out the main mast…

There were death and screams in the air, and the iron-stink of blood mingled with the fresh sea air. Josephine blocked it all out. This, she was good at—zeroing in on a vital task, being aware of all her surroundings while remaining focused on the one vital thing.

The third shot connected with the ship, but not the mast which would prevent the ship’s escape. But she was getting the hang of this now. She reloaded again.

But before she could get off another shot, she perceived a shadow falling over her, blocking out the steadily rising sun—she turned to face the marauding Vashoth, blade raised for the killing blow—had hardly begun to scream—

The Vashoth dropped his blade, gurgling as blood seeped from his torn throat. A small throwing dagger gleamed there. He stumbled, keeling over the gunwhale. Josephine heard a distant splash.

She turned wildly around, but Isabela had already re-engaged in the skirmish. She had to stop and gape. Isabela was completely unarmored, fighting only in her loose white shift and tall boots. It was mesmerizing, watching her move, dodging strikes with serpentine grace and fluidity. Any moment might have proved fatal—a blade here, a treacherous swipe there, and Josephine couldn’t help but gasp  at  every one—but each brush with death only made Isabela’s laugh louder, her taunts more vicious.

Josephine returned her attention to the cannon, but not before securing the Vashoth’s dropped blade to her belt.

But she did not even have the time to reload again before she was forced to draw her pilfered blade to defend against an attacker that this time, at least, she saw coming. Ancient memories of bard training surfaced, her reflexes as lightning quick as they’d ever been. She parried, retreated, parried and disengaged and retreated again, barely managing to turn the blade away. She nearly began to grin, the joy of living so close to the edge of death singing in her veins.

A taller opponent had a significant advantage in reach, requiring Josephine to retreat further out of distance than she normally would, making any blow more difficult to land.

But even when she saw an opening, when she might have stabbed the assailant on a too-wide upswing, taken advantage of his unbalance—she merely retreated and parried again.

No. She couldn’t do it.

This wasn’t who she was.

It was getting harder to parry; her wrist was numb from absorbing so many blows. She had been pressed back to the stairs to the foredeck, barely making her way up them without a fatal stumble.

What had she been thinking?

It would bet the most reasonable thing in the world to kill this man, she thought, parrying weakly again. This was no different than orchestrating a mutiny against Isabela—in fact, this case for self-defense was stronger than that ever was. Just like that young man, his neck bent all wrong…

Maker, how had she felt that was a moral and acceptable thing to do, when she couldn’t even slay a pirate actively trying to kill her in battle?

Suddenly, she was spared the moral conundrum of either dying or being killed by a bright flash of light, a bloom of heat, and a sound so loud that it temporarily deafened her. Josephine lay dazed on the foredeck, ears ringing, spots swimming in front of her vision. Her blade—she groped for it, but it was gone, and useless in her hands anyway. Her head was spinning so badly that she wouldn’t have been able to use it, anyway.

She blinked weakly. The man she had been fighting  lay a few feet away from her, missing the top half of his body. Well. That was one conundrum solved, she thought, hysterically feeling the need to laugh.

Then she became aware of the slow creaking.

She rolled over weakly, her whole body vibrating with the reverberating force of the ball. The foremast was badly damaged. The ball had hit the deck right at its base. And now…it was teetering, falling, the foresail inflating as the mast slowly descended…directly…towards her...

Another sudden force barreled directly into her, something that was probably not as strong as a cannon ball—but only maybe. Josephine found herself flat on her back, a warm heavy weight on top of her, as the resounding crash of the mast shook the deck.

She opened her eyes, trembling. Isabela’s body covered hers, warm and vital and life-preserving. The pirate’s face held neither smirking laughter nor wry melancholy—no, there was a different expression on her face. One that, did Josephine not know better, she might have called concern, relief…

Then the smirk was back. “Watch for falling ship parts, won’t you, sweet thing?” And then she was gone again, leaving Josephine feeling suddenly cold and exposed, raising her cutlass high and shouting a rallying cry.

 

\--

 

In the end, the Vashoth were defeated, due partly to Isabela’s prowess in battle—but mostly, to her uncompromising, fearless leadership. 

The _Siren Song_ would still be able to sail without its foremast, though it would need repairs soon and fast, as soon as they reached shore—the ship’s carpenter had already set about making measurements and shaking her head—but the Vashoth ship was so badly damaged as to be entirely at the mercy of the currents. Isabela’s crew left the survivors marooned aboard their own vessel—after liberating the contents of their hold, of course.

The crew, realizing that many of them were only alive because of Isabela, their democratically elected war-leader, shuffled awkwardly from foot to foot. Eventually, it was decided that they would not be forcing her to walk the plank.

“But we still want our demands met!” declared the quartermaster, looking only somewhat put out due to the lack of his hat.

And Isabela, making a great show of being a put-upon mother humoring a panful of disobedient children, responded with, “Very well, then. Guaranteed hook hands and peg legs for everyone. Plundering and excitement has just been accomplished. And after we drop off this troublesome noblewoman, we will go and visit all of your poor old mothers!”

“Hurrah!”

“So long as we don’t have to visit mine!”

“Hurrah!”

Well, Josephine thought, standing near the back in her torn, battle-weary clothing. I suppose this can be identified as ‘winning’.

As the crew cheered, Isabela’s gaze lifted and met hers briefly, and she gave a sort of conciliatory smile, one that most nearly said, _no harm done, eh?_

Josephine drifted away from the crowd as they broke open the casks of liberated rum. She ruminated. Isabela had kidnapped, mislead and extorted not only Yvette, but also Josephine herself, to which Josephine had responded with a coup-by-proxy…and an unintentional attempt on her life, which she had valiantly attempted to prevent. In return, Isabela had saved her life, one indirectly, once directly. Though it was arguable that since, without Isabela, Josephine would never have been in danger in the first place, that any life-saving done while captive was null and void.

Still, it was what it was. By her reckoning, imprecise (and ruled by a vague guilt) though it was, she still owed Isabela.

The journey back to Antiva City was surprisingly brief. Apparently the _Siren Song_ had been sailing back and forth in the Waking Sea, avoiding patrol ships but not straying too far from the shore. Before she knew it, Josephine was seeing a familiar skyline on the horizon, and shortly after that, taking her first step on land in weeks.

“I shall see to it,” said Josephine, stiff even to her own ears, “that your ship is not troubled by any authorities for as long as it takes you to make your repairs.”

Josephine stood on the dock, while Isabela remained on her ship, leaning forward over the gunwhale. She had again donned her full captain’s regalia. “My, how generous of you,” she drawled.

Josephine’s lips curved into a gracious noblewoman’s smile. “Oh, I know it is.”

There was a moment in which the only sounds were the bustle and noise of the southside docks—quite a lot of sound, by any measure, and yet, curiously distant to her ears.

Isabela straightened and sauntered partway down the gangplank. “You know, sweet thing, this was fun. You should invite me to some of your fancy parties sometime. I’m sure we could have plenty more…fun.”

Josephine strode forward to meet her halfway. “I’m absolutely certain that we will, my dear captain.”

And then, because the memory of the sea battle was still bright and electric in her mind, because Isabela’s body had been warm and protective and dangerous all at once pressed against her, because it had been shimmering in the air between them from nearly the very start, she stepped forward and kissed her.

And because she had been staring at it like a hungry wolf for weeks now, she wound her hands in the pirate’s hair, feeling the texture ad volume of it. And because Isabela’s outfit left so terribly little to the imagination, she pressed forward, experiencing the contours of her body with her own. And because nobody respectable who knew her would ever see this, and if they heard of it, would never belief it, she opened her mouth, and tasted the woman’s heady mix of smoke and salt and fiery liquor.

When she was satisfied, she stepped away, satisfied to the Void and back to see Isabela’s heavy-lidded, drunken expression. “And I’ll even pretend,” she said pointedly, “that I didn’t notice you grabbing my backside just then. So you’re welcome for that, too.”

Josephine turned back and began the long walk back to her family’s estate.

A few days later, she would watch, from her favorite vantage point in the city, the _Siren_ sail away, its wake long faded by the time she finally decided to return home again.

 

\--

 

Josephine kept herself busy enough upon her return.

First were the tearful reunions, and ascertainments of her wellbeing, which were numerous, and in true Antivan fashion, incredibly dramatic. Then the demands of stories, which were required by every member of her extended family on multiple occasions. Which resulted, primarily, in that the story became rather embellished, by the time Josephine had been forced to tell it for the seventeenth time.

The second most prominent occupation was of rescuing the family funds, which had been regrettably managed by Laurien during her absence. She gave many a sigh as she looked over the invoices, particularly the ones related to rescue attempts for herself. It would take her quite a while to restore things to the way they had been before.

Sitting at her desk, quill scratching well into the midnight candles, she thought—yes, this, _this_ is what I was made for.

But it did not prevent her from looking out her wide office windows by night. There they all were. Bellitanus, the maiden. Tenebrium, the shadow. Peraquialis, the voyager, who would point any sailor home.

And beyond the stars, the horizon, flat with ocean. And beyond that…

It was on one such night that Josephine found she was getting nearly nothing done, instead occupying nearly all her moments with an indescribable longing. For what, she could not say. For the stars above her head, and not beyond her window. For the smell of salt deep within her hair and clothes, and not distantly blowing in from the harbors. For hardtack and dried meat served for a feast, for battles of wit with beautiful women, for rum on her lips and stories on her tongue…

For Isabela. For life.

But…no. She knew, in truth, that Isabela’s life would never be hers. That she would never have been happy in such a life, as much as Isabela would never be happy with a life like Josephine’s. This was all mere fancy.

Still. There was a festival ball coming soon, hosted by the Montilyets. There would be costumes and masks. A meeting of two worlds.

She checked a few documents. Yes, there were many fast messenger ships in her employ presently available, who were not terribly needed elsewhere. The Raiders practically always stayed within the Waking Sea. They would be overtaken easily.

Josephine began to draft a personalized party invitation.

**Author's Note:**

> [cover art!](http://wombuttress-art.tumblr.com/post/162218437375/deception-disguise-and-kidnap-a-colorful-array)
> 
> [my tumblr](http://wombuttress.tumblr.com/)   
>  [my oc blog](http://pile-of-dragon-filth.tumblr.com/)


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